


Hide and Go Fuck Yourself

by parchment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, and I'm late, but I sincerely hope you like it anyway, god help me, it's Christmas, this is mostly about sebastian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/pseuds/parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy Christmas, the flat's empty. </p><p>You've got a note, a short supply of patience, and an empty day in front of you. </p><p>Good luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Go Fuck Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> for Ankita

Sebastian pads his way into the kitchen, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He yawns, stretching enough that a sliver of skin between his pyjama bottoms and shirt is showing. The holy smell of coffee, at least, wakes him up some, and he closes his eyes, taking a huge breath.

Too bad, then, that when he checks, he’s greeted by an intensely slimy sludge that might’ve been coffee about two hours ago. God forbid Jim clean up after himself.

“Jim?” he calls, ready to be mad as hell until Jim apologises, or at least as close as he ever gets to it. But the flat seems empty. Too echoey to actually hold any presence other than his own.

 _Happy Christmas_ , Sebastian thinks to himself bitterly, before realising he sounds a little too much like he’s twelve, so -

Whatever.

Wherever Jim’s fucked off to, Seb decides, rolling his eyes, he hopes he’ll remember to bring home some more bread. Can’t even make himself some toast.

He opens the fridge, and adds butter, eggs, and chocolate syrup to the imaginary list of groceries Jim will never get but Sebastian’ll still be bitter about him forgetting. He eventually opts for a glass of orange juice, instead. Makes up for the no food. And short night, probably. It's like a glass of healthy.

He sighs, and leans on the black granite island in the middle of the kitchen, surveying the room. The stainless steel sink is smudged, like someone with greasy hands touched it and just chose not to wipe it down. Probably because that’s exactly what happened, but Sebastian wasn’t about to cook dinner _and_ clean up.

At least, not in one night. But he’s up, Jim’s out, so he might as well. Just like he does every morning.

When he goes to get a rag out of the cabinet, however, he discovers that the shelves are empty, and all that’s there is a small, folded paper square.

He rolls his eyes again, wondering at the fact that he hasn’t sprained them yet, and unfolds it.

 

_salve tigris,_

 

Sebastian misses the rest of it, only catching bits of the scrawl on the paper as his fingers crumple the paper up and toss it across the room, helplessly watching it land in the sink.

He’s always hated that nickname, can’t honestly count the number of times he’s told Jim to fuck off, stop it, really, Jim. Growled it at him. Sat him down and tried to be as serious as possible with him. But it never stuck because Jim always asked why. _Why, Sebastian?_

Well, fuck if he was about to admit that.

He raises the hem of his shirt, watching the play of the stark, clinical light of the stove on his ribs, on the scars that pepper over them. He lets the fingers of his free hand trace one, and watches as his diaphragm tenses even if he’s the one touching himself.

“Some deep-seated trust issues, there, Sebastian,” he laughs, trying to psych himself out of it. He slaps his leather-striped healed-but-not-ever-really-healed skin purposefully, a touch too hard, before letting the shirt slide down again.

Sometimes he thinks he’s got some serious fucking problems.

At least, more so than usual.

He lazes about for a while, wipes down the countertops, tries to salvage the coffeepot, actually writes down the groceries they need.

Does not think about the note.

End up thinking about it a lot.

Maybe tries to recreate what it might’ve said from what he saw.

He’s halfway through a mind-numbing episode of _Downton Abbey_ when he gives up, tossing the remote on the couch. He walks into the kitchen like he’s not particularly looking for anything even though the only person around for him to fool is himself. The clock on the microwave tells him it’s could practically qualify as ‘afternoon’ and Jim’s still not back.

A lightning strike of worry runs through him, but he pretends it doesn’t.

The note’s still in its retrospectively rudely smashed position, and part of it is sort of damp from some residual water left in the sink.

Sebastian pulls it out, running it smooth over the island’s now clean surface. The entire thing is in a spattering of languages, words, two phrases, an errant smiley face on one corner. It mean nothing, literally, or through any of the memorised codes and cyphers Sebastian runs through his head.

It may just be Jim’s messy, scattered, whimsical sort of writing, though. Because it always looks like he starts writing, stops, maybe takes a short lunch break, maybe conquers the world, and comes back, with a completely different style of writing.

Drives Sebastian up the fucking wall.

He reads back through it anyway, carefully tracing the words in the ink-smudged in the bottom right corner parts as close as he can figure them to be.

 

_salve tigris,_

_看       Mistelten_

_了       Emikhulu_

_下       Regalo_

_面Reki_

_為Ysige_

_您Cesmína_

_已Hojas perennes_

_閱Roti jahe_

_讀Izinkuni_

_本Stern_

_Torta_

_Maramas_

_Anjo_

_Sarung_

_remember Paris? xx_

 

So Sebastian’s left with a weirdly long, slightly soggy piece of obviously ripped A4 paper, an empty flat that now seems much too empty, and a list of fuck all items that are weirdly festive.

Just another day on the job, then. At least he’s not getting shot at or something.

He rips the grocery list off the notepad he’d written it on, and starts writing the translations on the new page because he’ll be damned if he has to deal with this sort of shit for the rest of the - he glances at the clock - well, what’s left of the afternoon.

 

_hello tiger,_

_read the following as you have read this_

_mistletoe, nativity, gift, sleigh, icy, holly, evergreen, gingerbread, firewood, star, pie, lights, angel, mittens_

_remember Paris?_

He leaves out the x’s because they’re unnecessary and make him feel daft, and he’s still back to ‘this makes less sense than that time Jim actually set me up to assassinate myself to see if I could figure it out to test my intelligence during my training.’ Maybe even less sense than that time in East Germany.

But the ‘nativity’ still made him snort in a way that might’ve been embarrassing if he wasn’t home alone. Like Jim spent time, sitting there, thinking, and just decided, _yes, the scene of the child Jesus’ birth. Perfect._

Of course, pragmatically speaking, Sebastian knows that’s perfectly viable.

So he’s half-standing there like an idiot, half-sitting on a bar stool like an idiot, and slowly feeling the realisation dawn that his back is cramping in its slouch like a bitch, with nothing but a laundry list of Christmas paraphernalia.

He’s going to kill Jim.

He stares at his translation page, anyway.

Lies on the couch, lifting it above his head to see the way the light sifts through the paper’s fibers.

Says the words out loud because, what the hell, Jim still isn’t back.

Taps the words out in morse code while spelling them aloud in NATO phonetic alphabet.

Maybe he tries saying it in Jim’s ridiculous accent.

Maybe, possibly, in some alternative universe where Seb has no pride or reservations, he talks to the ceiling while he lies on their bed staring at the papers side by side, telling it that he’s tired, and it’s Christmas, and none of this makes any sense, so how about you come out and just throw some tinsel at me already, Jim. Because through these games, riddles, annoying what-the-fuck-evers Jim insists on every so often, Sebastian’s become so sure that Jim’s keeping an eye on him, watching him.

Probably wrapped in a blanket, shovelling popcorn in his mouth, and laughing at him, the bastard.

He takes a break. He stares at the words until they don’t look like words. He says them all phonetically. He says them backwards. He translates them into the next language below it, and then tries the cyphers. Skip codes. Singing them. In the shower.

Nothing works, and he wants to break something in half.

Preferably Jim.

Sebastian stands on his head and meditates. Half-arses humming some classic rock. Plays the piano he insists he can’t. Makes those stupid fold-up snowflakes that he used to primary school.

The upside-down clock he can see, with his head hanging off the edge of their bed, again, says ‘18:44’ likes it’s getting paid for it.

He reads Jim’s page again, scoffing at how his eyes feel almost permanently crossed by how he’s scanned it so many times, reading across for the header, down for the Chinese, across for the myriad of languages Jim shoved in his face. Across. Down. Across. Across. Down. Across. Down. Down. Across. Across. Down. Down.

_Down._

Fuck Jim. Didn’t even need translations.

_M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S_

He sits upright so fast he feels dizzy.

“Jim!” he shouts to the empty rooms, and he’s probably so wired he’s just hallucinating at this point, but it feels like the flat wakes up a bit, too.

“Merry Christmas, you fucker,” he chuckles at the empty air, and turns around, rolling his eyes down at the paper, the last line still haunting his fingertips.

They’ve never been to Paris.

“Paris,” he mutters. “Paris, Paris, Paris.” He sits on the edge of the bed, jiggling his leg, mindless of how his bare heel makes the empty tile beneath his foot clunk with a hollow noise each time it makes contact.

“Paris, Paris, Paris.”

_thunk, thunk, thunk_

Oh.

Of course.

It had been years, but it felt, stereotypically enough, like it was yesterday.

He had just started _actually_ working for Jim, had just finished the last ‘job’ that wasn’t an actual job so much as part of his extremely dubious training, thinking one part that’s fucking _right_ he finished, two parts his new boss was absolutely mental. Actually, maybe the ratio was more like 1:5, but he was being nice now that he had a little hindsight.

He was in East Germany.

Jim was probably here, actually, when he'd called, told him the job was done. Probably using the phone a few feet away from Seb's hand, thrown carelessly on the carpeted ground.

_"Hey, boss."_

_"My favourite idiot."_

_"You favourite_  assassin _, boss. Just finished."_  


_The noisy sigh at the other end makes Sebastian roll his eyes reflexively, the first of many._

_"Disappointed?"_

_"'Course not, Seb. I just thought he'd be more of a_ challenge _."_

 _"Boss, I had to tail him for two months, learn this weird, extinct dialect of Russian, and_ kiss his sister. _"_

_The laugh was almost worth admitting it, but that feeling was quickly erased when Jim's giggles trailed off with a, "Got a picture of that."_

_"Fucking hell," he muttered._

_"Language, Sebastian."_

_"Sorry, boss."_

_"No, you're not." The laugh in that was contagious, and Sebastian swallowed it through the line._

_"I'd be more sorry if I wasn't freezing my arse off," he snarled, blowing warm air at his hands to cup back at his face, hoping to warm his dry lips and chapped nose._

_"No, you wouldn't."_

_"Well, you wouldn't know, would you? Sending me off to absolute zero, hurricane blizzard locations like you're enjoying it."_

_There's a curious silence._

_"You're enjoying this, aren't you," and the question comes out as more of a statement._

_"Well, where would you_  like _to go, Sebby?"_

_"Don't call me that."_

_"Didn't answer the question," Jim sang._

_Sebastian ran a rough hand through his hair. "Paris."_

_"Took you more for an Italy man," he mused._

_Of course, the moment he hears that, Sebastian changes his mind._

_"Well-"_

_"No take backs, tiger."_

_"Don't call me that, either."_

_A laugh._

_"Finland, Tuesday, tiger. I'll send you the coordinates."_

_"What happened to Paris?"_

_"Maybe next time. Ask when you deserve it."_

_A dial tone._

He'd never asked. Never even thought about it, really, except for the five seconds after Jim hung up to throw the mobile on the ground and stomp on it.

Sebastian stands up, feet slapping on the tile floor of the hall as he makes his way to the door. He swears to God if he has to go to Paris just to get a 'Happy Christmas' from Jim, he's going to explo-

When he jerks the door open, Jim's standing there, trim, suited up, smiling lightly, carrying an envelope and a single sprig of flowers.

Sebastian's standing just inside, leaning against the wall, in his pyjamas, still, coat in hand. Bare feet. Nearly-eight-o'clock shadow practically a beard. He sends a small prayer of thanks to the god of desperately outclassed blokes that he remembered to brush his teeth about four hours ago.

"Hey," he says, feeling stupid.

"Hey, tiger," Jim lilts softly, leaning up on his tiptoes to press a cold-lipped peck to Sebastian's cheek.

"Don't call me that," Sebastian mutters, nudging Jim's head aside for an actual kiss. Jim's lips feel chapped, freezing half to death, and Sebastian laughs softly because oh, how the tables have turned.

Jim smiles against his lips like he knows what he's thinking, and wriggles his way inside the door.

"I'm freezing my arse off," he grins, affecting an American accent.

Sebastian laughs again, shoving Jim past him and shutting the door behind them both. "Shut up."

Jim pushes back, hardly moving Sebastian an inch, pushing harder until Sebastian relents, allowing himself to be shoved against the wall. "Make me."

Sebastian doesn't move, just dips his head down to brush his lips against Jim's before drawing away. "No."

"No?"

"No," he nods, grabbing Jim's hand, dragging him to the sitting room, pulling him against him roughly on the couch. "No, you talk. Explain."

"Sort of self-explanatory, isn't it, Seb?" Jim whines, wrinkling his nose.

Sebastian scoffs, but lets the stupid riddle-note slide, gesturing to the flowers and envelopes instead. "Those?"

Jim makes a pleased sound, looking down at the white petals fondly. "Lily of the valley. Ever heard of them, Sebastian?"

"Why the fuck would I?"

Jim nudges his shoulder, accomplishing nothing but getting an annoyed noise out of Sebastian. " _Language_ , tiger." _  
_

Sebastian entertains the thought of arguing for about .2 seconds, and then decides against it. "Sorry, boss."

Jim snorts like he doesn't believe him, which he shouldn't, but continues, anyway. "Lily of the valley, or  _convallaria majalis_ , is found all across the Northern Hemisphere. Asia. Europe. It's nearly always white. Smells," he says, sniffing the flowers deeply, "sweet. They are extremely poisonous."

Sebastian has a quick flash of Jim asking him to eat it, and it's frightening, but he isn't sure if he'd say no. But Jim's still talking.

"They're pink sometimes. It symbolically means 'the return of happiness.'" Jim's nose scrunches up like that personally offends him. "There's a legend that says it sprung up from the Virgin Mary's tears when she cried over her son's death."

Jim holds it out to Sebastian now, who takes it without thinking, smelling it lightly.

"In France, they sell lily of the valley on international labour day, May 1, without taxes, as a symbol of spring. New beginnings."

Jim hands him the envelope.

"Happy Christmas, Seb."

Sebastian opens it, even though he knows already, he knows.

Tickets.

_Paris, France._

_Flight IB4720_

_Heathrow_

Sebastian tosses them aside, onto the low lying table in the middle of the room. He lies back, pulling Jim on top of him, kissing him roughly, just on the right side of not caring that his stubble was going to be hell on Jim's skin.

The clock reads 23:49, and Sebastian's spent about 84% of his Christmas cursing the man he's breathing in, but the snow is falling outside like a whisper, the storm inside his own head has finally shut up, and he's got the petals of a poisonous flower brushing lightly against the back of his left hand.

It feels like Christmas.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, Ankita, bless you for being so patient.


End file.
